


The Sharp Knife Of A Short Life

by I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own



Series: Forever [9]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Barduilweek, Theme 5: Death, involves the death of a child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 11:14:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4261254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own/pseuds/I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mortals are so aware of how little time they have, even if the immortals who love them aren’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sharp Knife Of A Short Life

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Barduilweek, Theme 5: Death. 
> 
> Title from If I Die Young by The Band Perry. 
> 
> I actually debated for ages whether to write this piece for Barduilweek. I've planned out who is going to die and who isn't for this verse, but I wasn't sure if I wanted to write Alfhild's death or (spoiler)'s...

It is Alfhild who proves to Thranduil just how mortal Forevers are. Not that he had truly required the lesson.

It starts with a little cough, ignored as being simply just another cold. After all, Alvilda is sick, too, but it doesn’t get better. Alvilda recovers, is back to full health within two weeks, happy to run around and cause havoc wherever she can, but the same is not true for Alfhild. Alfhild only gets worse. And she is not alone.

* * *

“The sickness.” Bard explains to Thranduil one evening, when the human has run himself into the ground trying to assure the people this outbreak will not be like the last, and trying to reassure Tilda that Alfhild will be fine, and trying to reassure himself, too. Thranduil has missed all of this chaos, trapped as he was in endless meeting after endless meeting. He’d arrived to find Tilda crying out in the garden, and things had not improved since then.

“What is it?” Thranduil asks, watching the flame of the candle across the room flickering.

“We don’t know. It comes every few decades, affects the young girls and the women. Attacks their lungs, and eats up all their energy, and eventually they just… drift away.” Bard sighs heavily, closes his eyes and takes slow, deep breaths, willing his tears away. “It killed my wife.” Thranduil pulls Bard to him and holds him tight.

“I’m sorry. We’ll… find a way to cure Alfhild. We have to.”

“We can’t. We tried everything last time. It was devastating, even the Master stopped being so harsh during the outbreak. But in the end, all I could do was pray Sigrid and Tilda would not succumb.”

* * *

Alfhild struggles against the sickness for three long weeks, but in the end, her little body can’t keep up the fight. She dies peacefully in her sleep, snuggled up in her father’s arms. Just seven years of age and she’s gone.

* * *

Thranduil doesn’t know how the humans do it, how they solider on. Alfhild’s funeral wasn’t the only one held today, but it was the one that meant most to him. She was cremated and her ashes buried in the ground.

There is a little mound out by the lake that holds something precious. When Thranduil looks towards the lake now, all he can see are the mounds that hold what was once Life. When he looks at Bard, he can see Alfhild weakening by the day. When he looks at Bard now, his first thought and his last thought are ‘when will you be taken from me, too?’

Death is such a present thing for humans, he has discovered. There are reminders of it everywhere, and in every action. Mortals are so aware of how little time they have, even if the immortals who love them aren’t.

Thranduil will not be unaware a single moment more.

He cannot afford to be.


End file.
